Eggshells
by Keitorin Asthore
Summary: She was forced to leave him. He searched the world over to get her back. My 100th story. Yohna. Oneshot. COMPLETE.


Disclaimer: Shaman King belongs to Hiroyuki Takei, not me.

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She was white- not merely pale, but white.

It had been a long time since he had seen her. In his memories he could see her clearly- slim and petite, the fairness of her skin and light golden hair contrasting sweetly with the wide soft chocolate color of her eyes and the gentle curve of her jet lashes. She was always dressed simply, classically- an angel in a little black dress. Her face was serene and set, the only variance of emotion found in the flash of her eyes or the curves of her lips. In his memories she was lovely

But his golden memory could not reconcile with what he saw.

She was no taller than she had been at fourteen, but she was sixteen pounds smaller. The bone of her neck jutted out like a precipice, a black slash under the street lamp. Everything about her was sharp now- hard diagonals of her cheekbones, the point of her chin, the acute angles of her elbows. Her hair wasn't golden, it was yellow, yellow and brassy, a solid block of Crayola color hanging down her knobby bare back. The yellow stood out in the dark, and showed up like a beacon against the vibrant red of her dress. The scrap of fabric hung awkwardly on her narrow body, dangling on her sharp shoulders and lolling around her bony knees. Her skinny legs- she'd always had thin legs, bird legs- her skinny legs looked like toothpicks in the obscenely high heels. She was nothing but a walking bit of shrapnel.

When her back was turned, like now, he could pretend. He could pretend that this woman was someone else's worry. That his own girl was safe and sound and happy and healthy, fast asleep in her own bed.

But when she turned around, he couldn't pretend. It was impossible, not when he could see the planes and angles of her memorized face- lips, cheeks, ears, nose, forehead. And the eyes. Oh God, the eyes. They weren't anything anymore. In her painted face, with its artificial brushes of sun and splotches of blushing and red slash of lips, her eyes were nothing. Ringed with eyeliner, shaded in burgundy, hedged by mascara, there was nothing in their expression. Her eyes were black- black holes in her snow white face.

She stood in the bronze ring of light, the shadows playing across her face. To someone who was seeing her for the first time, perhaps she seemed attractive, hot, a babe, a sex kitten. She looked tall, she was slender, her hair was touchable, her face was nicely arranged, her clothes were fashionable. She must be expensive.

He saw her differently. He saw a delicate toddler who slept quietly in his mother's arms, a yellow blanket clutched in her tiny fist. He saw a solemn-eyed child, dressed in too-large hand-me-downs and scuffy sneakers but exuding an air of grace unusual for their age. He saw a hesitant young girl, unsure and unsteady, but still full of sweet coltish grace. He saw a young woman, blossoming perfectly until the frost came, and killed her before her time.

There was little grace left in the dry twiggy husk he saw standing in the lamplight. A man walked up to her, placed his hand on her bare shoulder. He rummaged in his pocket, came up short, walked away. She sighed, so slightly it was barely noticeable except to someone who knew her manners well. A sense of dejection infused her for a moment- slumping her shoulders, bowing her head, twisting her lips. But it vanished as quickly as it came, and she was back to acting the proud queen, head held high.

He couldn't wait any longer. He turned the key in the ignition, was rewarded by the light chugging sound and a muted roar of engine, and crept up the street.

She turned slightly, a quarter-turn, when she heard the car. She didn't recognize the car. She didn't recognize him. He slowed to a stop and rolled down the passenger window.

"Are you looking?" he asked. It broke his heart to say the words.

"How much do you have?" she asked. Her voice was soft and faint, slightly raspy with cold and cool as mist.

He reached into the pocket of his jacket, showing her a small bound stack of money. "Enough," he said.

She leaned against the car door in a calculated manner, arching her back and lifting her breasts. "You can park the car in the back," she said. "My room is upstairs."

"No," he said so quickly he bit his tongue. "No, no…I want you to come with me."

The black eyes grew blanker. "But my…I don't think…."

"I just want to take you to get some dinner," he said. "We'll just get some food. And then, later maybe, I can take you back here."

She hesitated for a moment, a long held-breath moment. And she placed her narrow fingers on the cool metal handle of the door and slipped inside his car.

His anxious grip on the steering wheel tightened as the silver buckle of her seatbelt clicked into place. He hadn't been so close to her in three years. Her hand was inches from his leg, he could smell her shampoo. His deepest desires screamed at him to tear off now, drive her away from this place and back to home, her home, their home. But he knew her too well. So he forced himself to smile lightly- his smiles used to come so easily- and put the car out of park and into drive.

She was quiet during he drive, watching him out of the corners of her black eyes and through the curtain of brass hair. He remembered this technique of hers. Ordinarily a person would not notice her silent small stare, but she used to watch him this way for hours while he was sleeping. He knew. He hadn't been sleeping, but watching her. An odd way of romance.

"You're wearing sunglasses."

Another trick of hers- statement as a question.

"My eyes are sensitive," he said, hating himself for lying as he maneuvered the car under the white lights of four-lane traffic. "A medical condition, from my childhood. I'm used to it."

She asked no more statements. She sat properly in her seat, heeled feet resting evenly on the floor, folded hands in her lap, chin tilted down but black eyes tilted up. A picture of submission, of a dominated spirit. For a moment he hated her for it, but it passed. She was never this way before, but much had happened.

He flicked on the left turn signal. She watched him with mild interest as he expertly turned the left-hand drive car into the diner parking lot. There was a reason he chose to drive an American car. She would never expect it. She would never expect him to drive at all, actually. He was lazy, he would never get his license.

But things change.

"Have you ever eaten here before?" he asked as he parked.

"No, not that I recall," she said, reaching for her door handle. "I haven't been in this part of town in-"

She stopped, startled, as the door opened without her. He held the door, and held out his hand. She blinked slowly, set her fingertips gingerly on his. A chilling spark shot through him. She didn't notice. "I haven't been in this part of town in a long time," she completed.

She had dropped his hand, but her featherlight fingertips still burned against his. He held the front door open for her. The diner was almost barren at the late hour; only a single man with a novel and three cups of coffee- two empty, one half full- sat in a corner. He led her over to a small booth. She sat down as smoothly and icily as one would sit at a formal party.

"Make yourself comfortable," he offered. "You must be tired."

She looked at him, blinked, blinked again.

"Why don't you take your shoes off," he suggested. "They look painful."

Her lips thinned, tugged tautly. "They look nice with the dress," she said bitterly, in a tone that was not hers. She tucked one leg beside her on the pleather bench and ripped at the ankle lacings. The scarlet strings left red marks on her bony white ankle. She dropped that leg and the shoe beside it, tucked up the other, let the shoe fall.

"Are you ready to order?" the waitress asked. She was young, round-cheeked and rosy, still smiling at a quarter past eleven.

They ordered the same thing, breakfast specials, and the waitress hurried into the back kitchen. "She seems rather young to be working this late at night," he commented indifferently.

"Young?" she repeated.

"Well, she doesn't seem more than sixteen or so, don't you think?" he added with an artless, breezy air.

She froze, lips white in her artificially tan face. Through the streaks in the makeup he could see the paleness of her real skin. "Sixteen," she repeated. "Sixteen, yes, I suppose, yes. Around that age."

"I remember sixteen," he said, bracing himself for another lie. "I was studying at Kowiya High. Where did you go to school when you were sixteen?" He took a sip of ice water, hoping to quell the flush that deception rose in him.

"I was out of high school," she said lightly, airily.

"You graduated at sixteen," he guessed. Too bad he already knew the answer.

She shook her head. "I left school to start….start working," she said.

"In this profession?"

A slight nod. "I'm doing quite well for myself," she said. "As a…professional…in the escort field." The words were bitter for them both to swallow.

"Here's your food," the sweet young waitress said, placing the thick white plates in front of them. She bade them enjoy with the naïvete of the still-youthful and disappeared into the back again.

"Enjoy," he repeated to her. She didn't answer. He took a bite. She took up her hard boiled egg, clinked against the ceramic plate. He watched her pick at the resulting crack with a small pointed fingernail; small flakes of eggshell floated onto the dove gray formica.

"So tell me about yourself," she said, watching her egg. "What college did you attend?"

"Tokyo University," he said. He was happy not to lie anymore.

"I'm impressed," she said.

"I'm in the middle of my degree right now," he said. "A history major. I'd like to teach."

"A lofty aspiration," she said.

"I'm on my autumn break from school right now," he said. "I've got a week off before I go back."

"Planning to visit me more than once?" she inquired.

He ignored her. It hurt, but he ignored her. "I'm a history major with a minor in literature," he said.

She always loved literature class. She started reading when she was small and she devoured books. Dickens, Wells, Hugo, Alcott. Poetry and prose. Fiction and nonfiction. The printed word was one of her greatest allies.

"Literature," she said. A large chunk of thin eggshell tapped onto the tabletop. "Any particular field?"

"The Victorian age," he said.

She closed her eyes. "The Alice days," she said.

He smiled at her.

"Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe," she recited, voice soft and sweet as a child's. For the first time, she smiled lightly.

"All mimsy were the borogoves, and the momeraths outgrabe," he finished. He smiled back at her. "Such nonsense."

"Oh, but it's beautiful nonsense," she said. "And doesn't everyone want some pretty fancies in their heads at some point or another?"  
"I suppose," he said, smiling at her. She looked up, tilted a quarter-smile like a tiny crescent moon, dropped her head as the smooth slippery peeled egg fell into her small palm.

"I ought to be asking you questions about yourself, not babbling," she said quietly, self-consciously. "Do you have a significant other?"

"Besides you?" he inquired lightly. "No. None at all." He watched her trim away some of the clean solid white and tuck it into her mouth; a hint of pale yellow yolk peeped through. "Do many of your…clients have significant others?"

She focused intently on the egg. If looks could be lasers, it would have been a puddle of milky liquid. "I've seen plenty of men with rings on their fingers," she said. "Sometimes they want to liven things up for themselves. Sometimes they want a connection they don't have with the woman who goes with the ring. A few just want to have a momentary thrill." Half of the egg white was peeled away. The other half slipped off, leaving the little yellow yolk as perfect as a soft baby sun. "But they never stay long, in any case. They leave the money, take their shoes, and go."

She looked up again. "I really shouldn't talk like this," she said. She forced a smile- what looked natural and charming on a sixteen year old waitress looked like a tightened hinge on her. "So, you graduated from Kowiya High and went off to Tokyo University to major in history and minor in literature to become a teacher."

His heart skipped a good four and a half beats. "I didn't graduate from Kowiya High, actually," he said, attempting nonchalance. "I only went there for a short time. I spent most of my high school days at Shinra Academy."

The little yolk, tiny and serene, dropped onto the plate.

"Yes, I went to Shinra for middle school and high school," he continued carelessly, recklessly. "I live in Funbari Hill. Do you know the area?"

She leaped up, stumbling backwards in her bare feet. "No, no…I…I don't…I have to go…I must take care of…some business….matters of importance…"

He stood up slowly, like a hunter trying to coax a frightened deer. "You know, you've asked me all sorts of questions, but you've never even tried to guess my name," he said.

"Please, sir, I really have to-"

"Anna."

She froze. Halfway between the booth and the front door she stopped dead. The reader in the corner booth didn't look up.

"Please…if you live in Funbari Hill…you must know him…don't tell him….please don't tell-"

"Yoh?"

She was still frozen, but not motionless. Her slender fingers trembled.

He inched a little closer. "You don't want Yoh Asakura to know."  
"Yes," she whispered. "I can't…I can't let Yoh know. It would break…it would break his heart…and if mine wasn't already shattered it would break mine too."

He took off his sunglasses.

He bought them for their large thick plastic frames of mottled brown plastic, for the thick black lenses. So much of his face was obscured. The colors made his skin look sallow, not his usual healthy tan. He had slicked back his hair. He was dressed in expensive clothes. He looked nothing like himself.

But she could tell him by his eyes.

The sunglasses fell to the floor. She pressed her fists to her mouth, smashed her knuckles against her teeth until they tore at the paper-thin skin and bled. Under her makeup she was colorless.

"How long have you known?" she whispered.

"Six months," he said. "It took me four months of that to track you down to your district, and two months to plan all of this." He gestured about him when he said "all of this", as if by that she could see the sleepless nights and self-debating and the scribbled ideas of plans. "I've been looking for you for the past three years."

She was shaking now, a shivering little scrap of humanity. No one would call her a sex kitten now. She was a sad little alley cat, six inches shorter with her heels off, skeletal and mangy. The hollowed bruised circles under her eyes glared sharply under the white lights of the diner. "You've….been looking for three years?" she repeated.

"Ever since the night we were sixteen and my grandmother announced that you were no longer necessary," he said softly.

She closed her eyes. A fragile blue network of capillaries wended through the fog of eyeshadow. "No longer necessary," she repeated. "I was three when I started training. I was ten when I met my future husband, you. I was thirteen when I became responsible for your training. And when I was sixteen…I was no longer necessary." The eyes squinched closed even tighter. "My whole life was nothing. I was a means, a stage. The only way to get you from one level to another in your training, and when you were completed, so was I."

"And you came here," he whispered.

He remembered cold winter nights when the old radiator would huff and puff and break down. When the chill became unbearable he would toss his blanket round his shoulders and pad down the hall to her bedroom. He would curl up against her, adjusting his tall lanky muscular frame against her tiny soft body, and fall asleep, their warmth pressed against each other. She slept soundly in his arms, and he dreamed of the time in the future when they would do this every night.

And now, for the past three years, she had slept in the arms of strangers.

But did they cradle her gently when she whimpered from nightmares? Did they kiss her lightly on the back of her neck to make her relax? Did they care if she was cold or upset or lonely or depressed or just in a mood?

"I came here," she said, "because I was already broken." She sighed, relaxed her small hands with reddened knuckles, stared at the floor. "I was broken a long time ago, long before I even knew you. Damaged property. You wouldn't want that now, would you?"

"Broken things can be fixed," he said.

She reached over and picked up the small pile of eggshell from the table. "Put this back together, then," she said. "Go on. Put the pieces back together." She threw the fragments at him. He stood there, helpless for a reply. "I'm going to back now," she said. "And I don't want you to follow me."

"Just because it's broken doesn't mean it's useless," he called.

She stopped, her back turned to him. She was already halfway out the door. "Oh yes, of course," she snapped. "Everyone wants those broken little bits."

He ran his big callused finger over the small heap of cracked shell. "Artists use eggshells for paint colors," he said softly. "These broken little bits can make gorgeous colors, and are used for beautiful paintings." He opened his hand over the table; eggshell shrapnel fell onto the formica in a soft rainy sound.

Her back was still turned to him. He could count the tiny bumps of her spine. Her shoulders trembled once, twice.

"Come home," he whispered. "Come home with me, Anna."

She was motionless. He stepped softly towards her, and gently placed his hands on her shoulders. Long strands of golden hair swooped silkily over his fingers. Her bare skin was soft.

And she collapsed against him, soundless and defenseless, tiny bony hands gripping the collar of his jacket tightly. He lifted her up, circling her in his arms, cradling her like a child.

And they went home.

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**Author's Notes:**

THIS IS OFFICIALLY MY ONE HUNDREDTH STORY!!!!!!!!!!!! LET THE REJOICING BEGIN!!!!!!!!!!

I wrote this about two or three years ago and never posted it. I don't know why- personally, I think it's one of the best pieces of exposition I've ever written. The description is a lot more fluid than it usually is.

I hope you liked it!


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